Lisa's Little Thing
by one-red-sock
Summary: It really is a little thing, but Lisa thinks she loves Dean's gray sweatpants, mostly because of the body underneath. Just a sweet little slice of schmoop, with a side-dish of Dean's beautiful belly. For another story set in this 'verse, see "Not Such a Little Thing Anymore."


(I can switch this to 'in-progress' if anyone wants to read more of Lisa's little obsession with Dean's belly, yeah? Just let me know. ;) )

* * *

The Braeden home is quiet, a rarity these days. Ben has just discovered Fall Out Boy and thinks they sound better at twenty decibels, but he's spending the night at Cameron's house so Lisa plops down onto the couch and stretches her toes out on the coffee table in the relative peace.

Dean is still banging around the kitchen, putting dinner away – into the 'fridge or his belly, either one works. He has the good sense to appreciate her cooking, and that makes him ten times more appealing. Not that he really needs help in that department. From his bad-boy good looks to the wound in his psyche put there by his brother's death, Lisa adores him. Maybe that's the crux of it: Dean's complicated way of being so damned strong and heart-breaking, all in one fell swoop. He gives until it hurts and when he hurts, Lisa just wants to wrap him in her arms and make him safe and be the 'normal' that will smother all the nightmares away.

And Christ, there are nightmares. Nearly every night. Since the moment he'd made a place in her life, she guesses there might've been all of a half-dozen dreamless sleeps for Dean. She'd take every last one of his fears on her own shoulders if it meant he'd be able to just sleep.

He's doing better, though, figuring out how to relax after an episode. It takes soothing words and a thoughtful arm around his chest, patience and sometimes a shot of whiskey, but it seems to be improving. Maybe he's healing. Maybe he's coming to terms.

"Hey, hon, you want something to drink?" he hollers from the kitchen.

"No thanks, babe, I'm good."

"Yes, yes you are." Dean pads barefoot around the corner with a beer in his hand and quirks a brow at her, sitting there in the dark and the quiet.

"No X-Box, no Fall Out Boy," she explains, and he gets it.

He has slipped out of his work clothes and into his favorite layin'-around gear, a pair of loose gray sweats and his sacred Led Zeppelin t-shirt. Well, the sweats _used_ to be loose when he'd first shown up on her doorstep – the cat that came to dinner and stayed – but through her tender loving care and home cooking, he's got more meat on his bones, fewer edges. He's not out of shape by any stretch, but he looks solid now, healthy, not worn thin and three steps away from a melt-down.

He plops down next to her and slings an arm across her shoulders, hugs her close, and sighs. The cat analogy still applies, he's practically purring, eyes heavy-lidded and a hint of a smile on his lips. Lisa nuzzles into the new softness under his chin, puts a gentle hand on the bulge of his belly. If she has to guess, that's where the left-overs went. His middle's warm and round and gives just a little when she palms it.

"Hey, now. Paws off the pudge," he grumps, but not meanly.

"Why? I like it." And she does, too. There's plenty of muscle underneath the cushion but she's always liked bellies. Well, specifically Dean's belly. Smooth, almost hairless except for a neat little trail that runs to his Happy Place. Plush, almost perfect, except for the scar to the left of his navel from God-only-knows-what. She brushes her thumb over that scar through the faded t-shirt.

"You really like the pudge?" He still sounds vaguely skeptical.

"Yes. All of it," she declares with a serious face, curling her fingers until his shirt starts to ride up. "A belly is a wonder to behold."

"Ha, funny. Is this a new thing?"

"Nooooo. It just never came up before." _We had bigger fish to fry. You know, with all your baggage from averting the Apocalypse and survivor's guilt, little things like that._ Lisa smiles against his collarbone and lets hers fingertips linger over the scar. "How'd you get that?"

"Hmm." He has to pause, take a swallow of beer and furrow his brows. "I think it was a nail."

"A nail? Not a…a claw or a fang or ghost with a pointy stick –"

"Ghosts can't hold sticks."

"You know what I mean."

"Nope. Just a nail. Second day at work, I think it was."

And that's all he says. His skin is remarkably unscathed for someone who used to hunt ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties. It piques her curiosity, but not enough to dredge up what he is clearly unwilling to discuss.

So she quashes her nosiness by rucking up the t-shirt until it's bundled at his chest, and adds her second hand to Dean's middle. She watches his expression as she kneads around his food-filled bump, massaging little bundles of fat between her fingers. It reminds her just a bit of being pregnant with Ben, but only in size. Early second trimester, maybe? Mostly, though, it makes her feel like she's taking good care of him and _that_ is a fabulous sensation.

He chugs a few mouthfuls of beer, playing with the tips of her hair. Interestingly, he's stopped objecting to the attention she's been paying his belly. In fact, he polishes off his drink and reclines back onto the couch, half-propped up by pillows. Setting the empty bottle on the floor, Dean tucks his hands behind his head and grins like a fool.

This is another reason Lisa likes Dean's gray sweatpants.

She can ease them low on his hips, beneath the nice, plump mound of his belly and marvel at the entire thing. It's gorgeous, _he_ looks gorgeous, and she can't resist giving his paunch a little push, watching it flop back into place with a few repercussive bounces. She smoothes her palms over his adorably freckled skin and cups his swollen lovehandles in her explorations across his middle. His thighs have gotten meatier too, but then Dean always did have strong legs.

Lisa takes her sweet time, even as the living room drops into shadow and the only light becomes the dim glow of the streetlamps outside. Dean's breathing deepens and evens out, mouth falling slack in soft snoring. Gently, blessedly asleep. She wouldn't dream of waking him.

And Lisa comes to a conclusion. This here? It makes her happy. It certainly seems to make Dean happy too.

Tomorrow is Saturday. Before they pick Ben up from Cameron's, she'll cook a huge breakfast for just her and Dean, with his favorite Belgian waffles and sausage patties, not links. They'll have prissy mimosas – which Dean likes but won't admit to – and maybe she'll pick up a cantaloupe, if she can find one in season. She'll feed him breakfast in bed, and they'll be happy.

It's the little things, isn't it?

(to be continued?)


End file.
